Family Matters
© 2022 by M. Mitch Marmel

Thumbnail art by  tegerio, color by  Major Matt Mason

Part Twenty-four


Winterbough:

"[It is so!]" I yelled at the wood-carver, "[This is a provocation against the lineage of myself, and relate to the ears of myself why your own small self should not feel the magickal wrath of the Master of Elfhame!]"

The roebuck wood-carver chuckled, filled his pipe, lit it, took a few puffs, and then pointed with the end of the pipe at the target. "[Is it not so, Honoured Master, that the image upon the table of myself is the very image of the Sixth of His Name, the Lady bless him in all endeavours?]"

I made it clear to him that the verisimilitude was at the root of my opinion that there was a certain class of libel in the matter, and certainly there was going to be comment among the does as to the use of wood as a medium for expressing Winterboughian images.

"[As when has not been the lot of our kind in general, and of Winterbough bucks in particular?]" came the placid reply. "[Surely it is our lot as decreed by the Lady Herself in Her Wisdom that we, the bucks of our small and sweet Vale, must take the sharp edge of satirical tongue at frequent intervals. To acknowledge the status, yea verily to take pride in the status, is to diminish and disparage it at once, and soften the hurt, ere as a chunk of ice soothes the whitefur after bandying words with the ants of our Vale.]"

True that may have been, but I still didn't like the image of my buck-fawn and namesake being used as a target, and said so, heatedly.

The woodcarver eyed the work of his paws, and flicked a bit of sawdust from between two very realistically carved antlers. "[Better the image of wood, than the reality of buck, says I with the tongue of myself.]"
Truth he may have told, but it didn't make me feel any better.

The day of the First Challenge arrived, and as with previous stages of the Challenge, it was a holiday in the Vale and its outlying areas, with furs arriving by hoof, footpad, and in a variety of carts. Once again, the post-ball field outside Greytor-village was used.

Sixth was having a grand old time, laughing and speaking fifteen to the dozen with his friends and contemporaries, and even chaffing some of the old gaffers (a few of whom had taken their ancient Rangers uniforms out of their wooden chests, pinned ancient medals to their chests, and hobbled out to their seats).

You wouldn't think that his future was being decided.

The crowd noise simmered down somewhat when a large, dark-colored mass, in the form of the [Eldest] and assorted allies, hove into view. Marching at the center-front of this parade was, of course, the [First of Eldest], i.e., my mate, Anastasia. Next to her, and with one of my mate's paws on her shoulder, was Belladonna Sumac. Who was trying to keep a brave face on things, but looked decidedly nervous, which was very unusual for an Elfhamian roe-doe. I wondered if she was going to get the "yips" when it came to toe the mark, something you see occasionally in archery contests.

I was seated at a table near the touch-line. The Target was on the table, but I had immediately covered it with a large cloth, as I wanted to keep the level of jokes somewhat down, if I could help it. I wasn't all that helped by Estvan, who was seated next to me. Every so often, he'd peek under the cloth, giggle, and whoop "Hudalaleigh!" If he hadn't been my elder and better, I'd have clouted him one on the ear-hole.

The young roe-doe approached the table.

"[Be ye Belladonna Sumac, and be ye one of the Challengers regarding the buck-fawn of myself, he that is Westersloe Winterbough, the Sixth of His Name?]"

She brushed a shank of long black headfur out of her eyes, squared her jaw, and looked me right in the eyes.

"[It is so,]" she said, softly, most unusual for a roe-doe, "[that the tongue of yourself speaks truth, for my own small self is Belladonna Sumac, and my own small self pursues the Challenge of which the tongue of yourself speaks.]"

I nodded, and with a stylus, checked something off on a list I had in front of me. I then waited.

And waited. And waited.

I was starting to get worried, because if there was going to be a default, there were going to be a lot of disappointed furs who had been deprived of their fun, and I would probably be also due for some class of lecture from Anastasia, who likely would have thought it was some kind of a bungle on my part. And very little would have dissuaded her from that line of chat.

Luckily, I was bailed out at the last minute, as the rhythmic sound of pounding hooves and the sound of stentorian snorting could be heard, getting closer and louder.

A number of deer and wolves parted, rather quickly, and just in time to admit Una Sawyer, riding upon a ram. She was leaning forward, and grasping with each paw a curly horn. She was dressed head-to-hoof in feral leather dyed green, which sported a liberal number of brass studs. A type of flat cap was perched, slightly askew, on her head, which allowed her head-fur to float behind her, at least until she came to a skidding stop, just inches away from both the table where I sat, and the spot where her rival stood.

She dismounted from the now softly snorting ram (which bore a fleece-covering indicating its name was "Triumph"), and took off her gloves. She glanced at me briefly, and not at all at her rival.

I was so astonished, I addressed her in Standard.

"What are you rebelling against, Una?"

Una Sawyer took off her cap, and shook her head, letting her tresses fall free. She then eyed me.

"Whaddya got?"


***


Tali:

Whoever that ginger shortstack in the green leather togs was, someone should tell her that she’s yummy-looking. But I’m not going to try and complicate matters here further by making a pass at her.

Still, yum. Also, mrowr.

Ooo-er, Missy and I had decided to head over to where the competition was supposed to start for the paw (and, presumably, other parts) of the Master’s buck-fawn. Because ‘Westersloe Winterbough, the Sixth of His Name’ is a bit of a mouthful, along with being a triple word score in Scrabble, nearly everyone called him ‘Sixth.’

“This must seem a little strange to you,” Ooo-er said. “The does running things, I mean.”

I grinned. “It’s a very sensible arrangement. I know a place where the femmes go about naked or nearly so,” and my two Elvish chums looked thoughtful, “while the mels have to wear robes whenever they leave their homes. All you can see are their eyes.”

“Are they still allowed to talk?” Missy asked. When I nodded, she snorted. “Not a perfect world, then.”

We all giggled at that, and only stopped when I saw the Raccoon Queen walking over. She stopped a few paces away, looking uncertain, and asked diffidently, “Can I, um, sit here with you?”

The three of us looked at each other, but it was Missy who spoke up. “Sure,” the wolfess said, patting the blanket we’d spread to sit on. “You can sit by me.”

“Thanks,” and the Raccoon Queen took a seat between me and Missy, and there was an awkward pause.

“You’re looking good,” Ooo-er said.

The sow sighed. “I’m starving, and I ache,” she said, “but the Regalia says it’s necessary that I get in shape. And then there’s – well, Sixth’s and my child.” She gave the three of us a wistful look. “I want to see who’s going to get picked as Sixth’s wife.”

I stared. “You’ve never met these two does?”

Tessie shook her head. “I didn’t know of either of them until that day at the Temple.” She sighed, and I put a consoling arm around her shoulders. To my surprise, she let me.

See, Low and I met and talked about things, yes including Matt, before I married into the family. We’re an equilateral triangle, we are. So my heart went out to Tessie.

I had brought along a picnic basket, and we were sharing a big container of popcorn as the competition started up. A target had been carved to resemble Sixth, and I found myself blinking as Tessie explained that Sawyer and Sumac were supposed to go for distance as well as accuracy. “What is this? Head Injury Playhouse?” I asked.

“Explains a lot about the bucks, doesn’t it?” Missy remarked, and we all giggled.

Sixth was certainly showing a lot of cheekiness, actually taking his mint-green uniform cap and planting it on the wooden target before the likeness was moved to about fifty meters away from a touch-line and propped up on a stepladder. The buck in contention then doffed his tunic and draped it around the bust’s shoulders, adding a touch more realism.

Neither me, Missy or Ooo-er understand Elfhamian, so Tessie started translating for us while I looked at the two combatants.

Belladonna Sumac: Slim, austere, and looking a trifle nervous as she fiddled with some antique rolling pin loaned to her for the occasion. She was obviously The Favorite, if the expressions of support from the older does and Anastasia were any indication.

And in this corner, weighing in at – well, never mind – Una Sawyer. The Challenger was leaning against her feral ram, arms crossed and staring into space. I’ve seen fighter pilots and soldiers looking like that, and realized that Sawyer was psyching herself up. The Master was holding a low-voiced conversation with the turtle who was the local Mephitist cleric.

Things being set up to everyone’s eventual satisfaction, the red flag went up and the Rangemaster ordered the area of fire cleared. In other words, the Master started yelling at people to clear away to give the two contestants a clear shot downrange.

The Master had to call out a few times to snap Sawyer out of it, and then a kerfuffle arose when it appeared that she hadn’t brought a rolling pin with her.

The ancient fox I’d met before, Estvan Silverbrush, stepped up and addressed himself to Winterbough, in the matter of an after-dinner speaker, if you know what I mean. "Sure an' ye've overlooked a mather of impartance, me fawn," he said, waggling a sooty finger at the Master. "Faith, 'tis a good thing altogether ye have a tod of me experience an' wisdom ready to paw, an' for a wee consideration of another tankard of plain . . . "

“Estvan, please,” the Master said, “just pack it in and just get on with it, already.”

The tod drank a tankard of beer first before walking over Sawyer stood, still leaning on her ram. Estvan reached into his Elfintory, and from it produced an impressively bulky cylinder of linen that bulged in various places. He gave a snap of the wrist, and the cylinder unfurled, revealing a startling array of rolling pins, some made of crystal, some made of brightly colored stone, and yet others made from a wide variety of exotic woods.

She merely raised one eyebrow at the display, and didn't seem to take much interest in it. Triumph (the feral ram she’d been riding), on the other paw, had had his nose bonked by one end of the cylinder, and expressed his displeasure at the action by extending his neck and giving Estvan's dangling brush a good chomp.

"CUISHLAMACRI!" came the anguished howl from the fox, as various expensive and rare relics went flying hither and tither. One or two which had flown into the air came down upon his own noggin, provoking further cries.

The does looked grimly satisfied as Estvan beat a hasty retreat back to the Master’s table, holding his injured tail-fur in his paws, and muttering darkly about ill-tempered beasts of the Vale.

Sawyer took a hoof, and gently shoved a few ancient rolling-pins about. She looked them over, yawned, and shook her head. Then, and only then, did she reach into her Elfintory, and pull out a rolling pin. Heartlessly plain and utilitarian, compared to the ornate relic Sumac was holding.

The Master pointed out where the scratch-line was. Sawyer glanced at him, back at the line, back at him, and then shrugged her shoulders. Flipping the pin up and down, lazily, in one of her paws, she approached the scratch-line.

There was a long pause. Measuring the wind, maybe.

Sawyer then raised her left arm – huh, a southpaw - and with great deliberateness and force, slammed her rolling pin into the turf. It dug into the ground, almost half-way up its length, and quivered.

Sawyer turned to Sumac, and curled her lip in a sneer.

"[Do you, sister, what you will with the implement in the paw of yourself, for naught is the proper usage ye can do with it. For my own small self, heed the tongue of myself, and that is that the rolling pin is for the creation of the comestibles pleasing to palate and heart, and nothing else. So has my own small self said, and likewise done,]" she said, with Tessie translating for the rest of us.

And with that, she turned smartly on her hoof. With a light leap, she mounted on Triumph, gripped his two curly horns with each of her paws, and gently struck at his side with one of her knees.

With a keening "[BAE-EEEEEEEEEEEE!]" the ram reared up on his hind legs, lowered himself, and then shot out for the open country at high speed, leaving Belladona Sumac staring at her rival, slack-jawed, until her form vanished as it headed out, seemingly for parts north. One of the older does then stepped forward, and lightly touched her upon the elbow, and whispered a few words to her.

The young roe-doe nodded, brushed back her lank, dark headfur from her eyes, and went to the scratch line. She breathed in and out a few times, and then with a fluid, side-arm motion, let fly with her relic.

It was a terrific toss, and the pin spun through the air in a steady blur. There was a loud CLUNK as it hit the target squarely, knocking it off the stepladder's top.

The does, as one, applauded their champion, but poor Sumac didn't seem to take much joy in her achievement. One of her elders said something to her, but she looked down at her hooves and shook her head. She walked out, slowly, to collect the relic she'd thrown, and once she'd retrieved it, she brought it back, and replaced it, slowly, in its chest.

So, a victory, but a victory by default. She certainly didn’t seem to be enjoying her win.

Tessie got to her feet and said to us, “I, uh, have to go and make lunch for the Fletchers,” she said. “The next challenge is tomorrow.” She looked hopeful. “Will I see you all there?”

Missy glanced at Ooo-er, who nodded, and I asked, “What’s the next contest?”

The raccoon looked a little distracted. “Cooking.” She smiled at me. “Thanks for the popcorn,” and she hurried off at a ground-eating trot.

Hmm.



<NEXT>

<PREVIOUS>

<FIRST>